On opening a book of verse,
falls a strand of memory.
A part of you that is ever mine,
this strand of memory.

Intangible, infrangible,
It keeps bound among these pages -
The bonds that you chose to sever, dear,
this strand of memory.

It seems you are talking to me;
It replays the things you said,
Funny, dull, silly, vague, clever, clear,
this strand of memory.

Like a shiny black record tape,
it plays again and again,
The voice I am doomed to never hear,
this strand of memory.

The twinkle of your jewels comes back;
It floods my senses, dispels,
A parting that I need never fear,
this strand of memory.

The paper crumbles, the ink fades,
but your ghazals still echo,
They stream back to me as ever clear,
this strand of memory.

You never were mine, but entrapped
among these ageing verses,
Raamesh will preserve forever dear,
this strand of memory.